This was inspired by Andrea_Adores. Go ahead and look her up here. She's magnificent.
This is a tribute to her, and to Nikki.
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I really can't help it.
It's the way they click on cold hard marble floors, or on smooth parquet, or on the concrete of a parking garage... it's the way they make a woman's outfit go from corporate demure to demoness in one 4" stiletto stab.
I can't help it at all.
My eyes go straight to them. I'm drawn to the elongated calf, the strengthened thigh, the subtle shift of pants as they break over the top of the foot, revealing the vicious spiked heel underneath. Is there going to be an ankle-strap? Two of them? God, be still my beating depraved heart.
I know that any woman who wears a 4" or higher stiletto heel knows exactly what she's doing. I know that she feels her own power to seduce the observer, and in that knowledge, she remains firmly and completely in control of the situation. Well, at least until I can show her that a little loss of control isn't necessarily a bad thing.
I was walking in the downtown core; it was lunchtime, and the sun was beating down in slow languid waves that were moderated by the wind patterns shifting through the skyscrapers. I silently congratulated myself on having the foresight to wear a lightweight silk suit and a ridiculously over-priced white cotton Armani Collezione shirt because anything heavier would have made me sweat like a politician. I love the lunchtime walk, by the way; it lets me clear my mind of the fantastically boring minutiae of the interminable meetings that consumed my mornings, and more importantly, it let me see the incredible array of high-heeled women that were availing themselves of the nice weather.
I walked by Nino's on the south side of the pedestrian mall, and I stopped dead in my tracks when I saw the sign that simply read "Louboutin Trunk Sale: 2 p.m."
I quickly pulled out my trusty Vertu, and speed-dialed Tamara's number at the office. "Listen... something's come up and I'm going to be back late this afternoon." I said a little breathlessly as my eyes locked on the pristine sign. "No, it's not that... I'm just doing a little... research." I said suggestively, the leer in my voice matching the half-smile creasing my mouth.
Now, I don't know if you have ever heard of Christian Louboutin, but for a shoe freak like me, it's like saying Michael Jordan's coming to the local high school for a game of pickup. His shoes are legendary: teetering heels, with the accent firmly on sex, and a signature gleaming red leather sole that was the equivalent of a baboon's angry signal. What? You've never taken a woman from behind while she's wearing Louboutin? Those red soles shine out like traffic lights, guiding you to the promised land. Anyway, I decided that I'd make sure I'd come to see the new collection, as well as check out the rich and bored trophy wives that were the only ones who could afford to buy these obscenely expensive things.
I wandered around some more, killing time. There was iced coffee to be had at Shalton's... the lovely Cheryl and I had flirted for months as I spied her in a pair of very sexy Alaia knock-offs... no way a barista could afford the real thing, but she was so damn cute that I was willing to forgive her sartorial sin. And she knew that I was obsessed as well; she caught me staring right from the beginning, and she went out of her way to tease me mercilessly. And the obligatory trip to Andrea Books, just so I could catch a glimpse of the knife-edge cheekbones of the devastating proprietess... I was working myself into a frenzy. Everywhere I walked, everywhere I looked, there was just a clattering cacophony of hypersexual shoes, attached to beautiful women. Life is beautiful, I mused, sipping the last of the coffee.
And then, I saw her.
Or more accurately, I saw her back. The mass of liquid black hair was magnetic, and I followed the lush mane downwards to the middle of her back, and caught a glimpse of the immaculately tailored charcoal gray jacket before its owner abruptly turned right and walked into Nino's. I looked upwards and murmured a silent prayer of thanks to Dionysus, that old rascal god of pleasure. I walked unhurriedly now, knowing that once a woman has entered Nino's, it's unlikely that she'll be coming out any time soon. The selection is the best in the city; the salesmen and women are attentive, knowledgeable, and gorgeous, and there are rumours whispered everywhere about the astonishing after-sales service.
I pushed the door open, and let the cool air-conditioning wash over me. The place was packed. Folding chairs had been hastily shoved together to form a vague semi-circle around the centre of the store, and they were all occupied by the kind of woman who never bothered to ask how much something cost. There was a comforting uniformity in their style; a little hard-edged plasticity to their faces, a touch of anti-gravity in the chest, and OH GOD, they're all wearing stilettos.
Peep toes (which I really could take or leave), sling backs, mules (could any shoe be uglier than a mule), a couple of English schoolmistress oxfords with 4" spikes (I just smiled and filed away the faces for future reference). There were knee-high boots aplenty; even with the summer heat, the exhibitionist allure of the tight leather was clearly too much for them to resist, and I quickly offered silent thanks to them as well. After all, one must be appreciative of the effort that it takes to look this good. One woman wore a gorgeous pair of ankle-strapped shoes that came decorated with sparkling rhinestones on the heel; she looked at me as though I was pond scum, and I favoured her with a smile nonetheless.
As a matter of fact, I was so busy looking at the delicious shoes that I hadn't noticed the conversations had all died away, and I equally didn't notice that their lacquered and painted faces had turned like sunflowers at noon to face me. As my eyes casually wandered up the gym-toned calves and running thighs, I realized that I was an interloper: I was unwelcome at this event, and it stiffened my spine with resolve. "I'm just here to see if the new ones are better than the new Jimmy Choos" I ventured casually. "I love how Christian elevates shoes to a high art." I said completely deadpan.
"... two, three..." I mentally counted before the laughter started. I deliberately looked toward the counter where sweating flutes of champagne invited guzzling, and I walked toward them to break the tension a little. I could sense the women going back to their conversations, and I waited a few moments before lifting a flute to my suddenly dry mouth.
"That was stupid." A voice said in my ear.
I turned to look at the owner of the Lauren Bacall soundalike, and I shook my head at the obvious cinematic irony of it belonging to the raven-haired woman I had spied earlier. My eyes looked straight into hers... no mean feat since I'm six feet tall. They were green, and ice cold, and I realized that she had already assessed me. I felt a cold vise grip my spine at the same time as her smell enveloped me and I involuntarily grew hard.
"You really think they give a shit about whether you like the shoes or not?" She whispered as she drained her own glass.
